It's Not Always Black-and-White
by Anisky0703
Summary: A 20 year-old James Potter muses on how his life has turned out for the worst when someone re-enters his life and reminds him of the wizarding world he thought he left behind long ago...


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Title: It's Not Always Black-and-White

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Author: Finnigans Irish Girl

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Author E-mail: anisky0703@yahoo.ca

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Category: Romance, Drama, and Angst

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Keywords: james lily voldemort 

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Spoilers: PS/SS, CoS, PoA

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Rating: PG13 for mild language and slash coupling

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Summary: A 20 year-old James Potter muses on how his life has turned out for the worst when a certain redhead re-enters his life and reminds him of the wizarding world he thought he left behind long ago. Pieces of his past finally click together and at long last, he finds out the truth that he was secretly searching for.

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Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros. Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

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Author's Note: Thanks so much for reviewing my first story, which I admit wasn't the best one in the world. Thank you for your honest criticism and hopefully (crosses fingers) my grammar is a bit better than in the other one. This is for all those people who took the time to review. Enjoy!

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It's Not Always Black-and-White

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It was a muggy sort of night—though it was a rather typical weather occurrence in the city of London, England. After all, the city was famous for these types of days and this night was no different.

The streets were slick with previously fallen rain from just a few hours before. Lone cars drove past apartment buildings dated from the late 19th century, and their wheels continuously ran through the well-placed puddles, spraying sheets of water over the cracked sidewalk. The sky was overcast with dark, threatening clouds that hid the luminous full moon.

Few people dared to wander in downtown London at this particular time, since many simply tried to capture as much sleep as possible for the busy lives they lead. The others were an active part of the secret—yet active—nightlife: night clubs with bright florescent lights, raves hidden deep underground and what not.

Then there was a minority that made up the stragglers, walking with no purpose on the streets; unable to succumb to the sanctity that only sleep can bring. Of these, the audience should focus their attention on one specific person that was currently walking down Cromwell Road.

He walked with a steady pace, hands secured in the pockets of his trench coat, fedora perched precariously on his bowed head. The street lamps emitted beams of light on the sidewalk, showing the way to this mysterious stranger. All in all, it looked like a scene taken out of a black-and-white movie, the different contrasts of gray adding to this effect.

The man raised his head and he blinked rapidly at the intensity of the light from a nearby street lamp, his features now clearly visible.

It was a shock to see that the man couldn't be much older than 20 though the lines engraved under his eyes and on his forehead stated otherwise. That and the way he carried himself—more like a middle-aged man that had been dragged down by life continuously than a 20 year-old with hopes and dreams for the road ahead. 

The slump of defeat was prominent in his posture and his eyes… No human being would be able to look into his dark brown eyes without a tingle of discomfort running up their spine. Eyes that held such vivid and raw emotions—grief and guilt, integrated with a mixture of other indefinable feelings. His brown eyes seemed even darker and burned with fiery intensity that seemed to sear holes into people, their inner selves bare under his scrutinizing gaze.

An air of sadness constantly hung around him, as if sucking all possibilities of happiness before it made contact with him. The only difference was now a faint smell of vodka clung to him like saran wrap, a constant reminder of what happened just a few hours ago.

It had started as a regular Friday morning. He was a journalist (a rather low-classed one at that) and worked for _The London Times_ as a sort of "back-up". The pay was decent enough and covered all the necessities, but the man he worked for, the editor-in-chief, could _not_ be any worse.

The editor-in-chief hadn't disappointed him that day as "The Boss" (which he is usually referred to as) harassed him about things that weren't even under his control. That day, "The Boss" seemed to be in a particularly nasty mood since he was still fuming about the paper not getting full coverage on a scandal that included the prime minister, while London's other prominent newspaper _The London Herald_ had done so.

Of course "The Boss" had taken it out on him, and his ravings were twice as long and twice as savage (which is saying quite a lot). He had half the mind to reach over and punch the guy in the face and had felt like this ever since he started working for Mr. Stanton ("The Boss's" real name). However, by some miracle from above, he had restrained himself and took to releasing his rage silently as angry thoughts and statements clashed in his mind.

"Bastard. You bastard. May you rot in hell…" was the mantra that ran through the head of the black-haired man, followed by an unending string of curses that would make the blood of many run cold.

It was afternoon when he made his way to his cubicle, fully aware of the hunger pains that struck him mercilessly. Not to his surprise, a young man about the same age stood waiting, fiddling with the camera that hung about this neck.

The man raised his head at the sound of footsteps and called out cheerfully in a lilting Irish accent, "Well hello there esteemed reporter! Had your usual talk with Mr. Stanton, did you now? I can just _tell_ from that murderous look in your eyes that it didn't go quite so well."

"Excellent observation Finnigan. You really have a knack for this detective stuff," the other snapped back, sarcasm oozing from his voice. He threw himself in front of the electric typewriter; a half-written article stared back and taunted him to no end.

Finnigan chirped in reply, "Figured that you might be hungry. We might as well work with a full stomach." He then trusted into the hands of the sitting man, a homemade sandwich. 

A half smile crept up the pale face as he gulped it down in nothing more than three bites. "Thanks Marty." 

After his appetite had been somewhat been subdued, he turned back to his companion. "Looks like the time has come to actually start working. I shudder at the thought."

"What was our assignment anyway? I missed the briefing, remember?"

"Well as I recall, we have the sole privilege of covering the mysterious murders of pets. Yesterday, there was a reported break-in early at the aviary behind Madame Dupont's mansion. All her birds were found dead; apparently their throats had been slit."

"How…pleasant."

"My sentiments exactly. I guess it's just our damn luck that we cover a story like that. All I can say is be brave, Marty."

Marty Finnigan was a cheery sort of person. Everyone who knew him rarely saw him without a smile on his face. He was an optimist by nature and looked at the world with veiled eyes, assuming that nobody in the world could possibly have a bad side—could not commit a crime, or abuse their spouse, or murder people by the thousands.

Marty and his fiancée had moved to London from their native country of Ireland about a year ago. When the reporter had met this child-like photographer with such ambition and passion and faith—so unlike himself in every aspect—he was inevitably drawn to him. From that day on, they had become fast friends, Marty and his sweet fiancée bringing out the best in him.

The solitary man snapped back to the present and he basked in the warm light of the street lamp, disoriented for a minute. The realization of exactly why he was there on the street, at that time of night, hit him—why he had spent his time in a desolate bar, attempting to get wasted. After all, he wasn't big on drinking, and only did when he felt obliged to do so.

It was all because of _her_. It was all because of Felicia.

Felicia had been his girlfriend of two years and everyone simply assumed that they'd be walking down the aisle one of these days. Even Marty had though so and had always asked how Felicia was as if by habit and he always provided the same answer: "She fine", even when she obviously wasn't. He always felt a tinge of guilt at lying to Marty but both he and Felicia had an unspoken vow not to speak of the details concerning their relationship.

For you see, she knew. She knew that he didn't love her, couldn't possibly love her.

Every touch they had issued, every sweet word they had exchanged, every kiss they had shared—there was something always missing something critical that Felicia deemed a phase in their relationship. 

However, as the months passed, even Felicia's ignorant stand on the subject had slowly broken down. The last few weeks of their relationship were one of desperation on Felicia's part. 

He could see the end drawing nearer, the checkered flag waving ominously ahead. That realization didn't make it any easier when Felicia had appeared on his doorstep earlier that night, and had said monotonously that it was over. The tears in those hazel eyes had betrayed her true feelings. She ran past the swinging doors, leaving a shell-shocked man behind.

Sure he had foreseen this all, but it didn't make it any easier. It had hurt him—a pang of guilt and regret that shot through his chest—to see her face concocted with sorrow.

It was a face had once glowed with life and natural beauty. Her countenance and gestures of sympathy, love and understanding was completed with a lean, athletic build. As a model, she surpassed many with her appearance and intelligence and any guy was lucky to have someone like her in his life.

She just _had_ to choose him, though. Out of all the guys in the world that would treat her like a goddess, she had to fall in love for someone like him—someone that had never known commitment or trust.

She had held out her heart and he had thrust it back savagely, bruising the delicate thing with his callousness and secrecy. He had never deserved someone like Felicia and at the end; her openness had rebounded on her.

Felicia would never be herself, and it was all because of him. In a way, the above statement applied to himself as well: Felicia was responsible for an irreversible change within him. She had made him realize that he, in fact, was a human being—not an entity that had simply escaped from the dream world. For the dawning of that realization, he owed Felicia the world.

The readers out there must be wondering: who is this man? This man, that had such a screwed up life? Well, if it's a name you are concerned with, you can call him James. Yes, just James (his last name was one made up for business and professional purposes).

It was all he had left of his former life. A life that seemed more like a fantasy, that anything else. One with its blurred images and scenes out of a well rehearsed play, with its indefinable characters and a hidden plot; with its undistinguishable dialogue and acts with no purpose. All of this, set in a world that seemed to defy the laws of reality, instead following the laws of magic, filled with sights and smells, sounds and tastes that should only exist in the rich imaginations of a few lucky people.

It seemed so surreal to James that he would have dismissed it as repercussions of his disturbed mind if it wasn't for one reason.

A reason with long, auburn hair that flowed and rippled down her back. A reason with sparkling green eyes set in a flawless face filled with curiousity and inquisitiveness. A reason with graceful arms and legs that moved with an unspoken purpose with hands that expressed her thoughts so honestly and deeply. The nameless being who haunted him every time his thoughts drifted away—his subconscious readily letting in this unwanted, yet desperately needed distraction.

James sighed, a deep and exhausted sigh that embodied all of the emotions that raged against the walls of his physical body.

The entity came unchecked yet again, bright eyes that blazed with sympathy at his suffering and utter confusion. She disappeared just as soon as she had come, her appearance leaving behind an unusual sense of comfort and assurance. 

Most often, her appearance brought forth with her feelings of anxiety that slowly gnawed at his heart. So she wasn't simply there to torture him—make his horrible life even more so.

He reached into one of the pockets and his hand instantly found a thin, yet pliable wooden stick and stroked its smooth surface absently. A shot of warmth ran through his fingers and James felt himself calm down at the benign warmth that coursed through his veins.

For the life of him, James couldn't understand his attachment to this novelty piece of junk. He was half-inclined to chuck it out the window at his times of frustration. Perhaps it was because he felt a connection to it (no matter how strange _that_ sounded). It was as if it had chosen him, though he didn't know why he believed that.

It was irrational, totally inexplicable and unbelievable but then again, so was he.

James started. Was that a _joke_? _He_ had made a crack at something? On top of that, he had made a crack at _himself_? What was the world coming to these days?

A mirthless chuckle escaped through those lips, at his expense.

He rounded a corner and felt himself hit something solid. He heard a sound, almost like a strangled gasp, come from a source in front of him as he stumbled back. From his vantage point, he could make out a pair of embroidered ankle-length boots.

An embarrassed James realized that the person he had walked into was a woman. He mumbled a hurried apology and he quickly raised his eyes, curiousity getting the better of him.

James' blood ran cold through his veins as the quick glance lengthened to a full-blown stare. Thoughts ran wildly through his head, unrequited feelings blazed in his heart, provoked by the woman before him.

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It can't be…Must be the alcohol but…Dare I hope? It has to be…Please God, don't let it just be a trick of the eye… 

It was she—the auburn-haired woman that was always present in all his thought and dreams. She was there in the flesh and looked so real…James desperately hoped that it wasn't simply a vivid hallucination.

The woman before him froze as his face came into full view and the green depths of her eyes swirled with confusion, as those same eyes widened with recognition.

"James…" her voice faint and hesitant.

He felt himself step back in shock at the woman's mention of his name. 

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Could it be possible that she actually knows me… when I do not even know her name?

"Who are you?" he asked, the question voiced, without his consent.

"You don't know who I am?" 

The hurt was obvious in her voice and James wanted to hit himself at the pain that was burdened on her voice due to his bluntness. She addressed him again. "It's me Lily—Lily Evans, from Hogwarts. You remember me, don't you?"

James bit his lower lip in thought. He didn't think she was crazy, far from it in fact. What she had said, hit home somewhere deep in his mind—James was giving it serious thought.

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Lily? Hogwarts? Why does it sound so familiar?

It was as if the floodgates within him were cracking, unable to hold back the mass of memories pushing against it. It finally gave way at the pressure, white-capped waves of past thoughts, emotions, words said, loomed over him. They crashed onto the shores of his mind and the impact sent him reeling to the pavement.

The waters stilled and calmed soon afterwards but then he realized quite suddenly—a bolt of lightening that struck with swiftness and precision—that he knew who he really was. 

It was not just James anymore—it was James _Potter_. Joy swept over him at the fact—the fact that he actually knew who he was.

Not only that, he also knew who the woman before him was. She wasn't simply an elfin figure out of a fairy tale. That woman before him was _Lily_—a former student of Hogwarts, a fellow Gryffindor, the love of his life, his _fiancée_. 

James' eyes swept over to Lily's left hand to a ring encrusted with pale amethysts adorn her ring finger. He was floored. She still wore it, after all this time.

"Lil'? I can't believe my eyes," James smiled endearingly, almost a natural instinct when it came to her. Lily smiled back, a smile that brought sparkles of warmth and happiness in her green eyes. She fell to the pavement before him and held his face between her slightly shaking hands.

As if she had no control over herself, her lips left fairy kisses all over his face, fervent in her pace and oblivious to everything else.

James shivered slightly at the familiar feeling of Lily's touch. Emotions rampaged within him, clearly sensing the heat of the last kiss on his face, replaced just as quickly by another. He didn't want to fight it any longer. James threw his arms around Lily and pulled her closer. 

She stopped in mid-kiss and looked inquiringly at him. In response, he bent his head and caught her lips with his own. Lily, without a doubt, kissed back, her soft locks of hair tickling his cheek. It was as if he was in a glorious paradise, where all of his wildest fantasies came true.

He would have given anything to continue to feel her comforting pressure upon his body, to continue to be endlessly happy and to continue to feel content with simply holding her in his arms. For that to last forever, though? Who was he kidding? Both pulled up for air their breath uneven.

"Oh James, honey. I was so worried about you. Almost everyone in the wizarding world think that you're dead." The note of relief was evident in Lily's voice. "I've spent do much time looking for you."

"How _did_ you find me anyway?" James looked at Lily with wonder. He was truly blessed to have someone like her.

"You know Sorcha O'Connor, don't you?"

"Sorcha? Wait a minute… You don't mean Finnigan's fiancée, do you?" _What does she have to do with everything? And how does Lily know her?_

"Well, you probably didn't know her back then since she was a year younger than us and was in Hufflepuff. She—"

"Wait a minute… Sorcha went to Hogwarts too? God, I feel like an idiot." James pushed his glasses back, and thought of all those times he had spent with Marty and Sorcha.

What had she been thinking when he had shown no sign of recognition every time they had spoken to one another and had not mentioned anything of their other life, one that many didn't know had existed. But that would mean Marty knew too. Sorcha wouldn't keep something like that from Marty. 

All the possibilities and the "what ifs" ran full speed in his mind, until Lily's voice interrupted his train of thought.

"Sorcha wouldn't think that. She sounded worried in the letter she sent me. She mentioned that Marty and her were keeping an eye out for you as well."

It took time to formulate an answer. "Letter?"

"Yeah. It took a while for her to contact me since I was travelling a lot. I just reached London about a week ago and moved in with Marty and Sorcha this evening. They gave me the address to your flat, although Sorcha insisted that I wait until tomorrow. But," Lily raised a hand and cradled his face fondly; "I couldn't wait that long James. After all these years, I had to make sure it was you. I always knew you were alive but I had to prove it to myself. I couldn't afford to raise my hopes and find out it wasn't you."

"Oh Lily…" as he murmured, he held her closer in a protective embrace, a foolish attempt to ward off the feelings of deep sadness that used her as a vessel. Lily was only supposed to be happy and hopeful and carefree. What happened to that Lily?

"Please James. Say that you'll come back."

James froze at her desperate wish. He would do anything for her to be happy, anything for her to smile that infectious smile of hers but before he could answer, a string of memories that had kept itself hidden emerged, swallowing James with its intensity.

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~~~FLASHBACK BEGINS~~~

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The big day had finally arrived. He, James Potter, was going to graduate. It was a wonder how he had done so well in the NEWTs since he had not been the most serious student at Hogwarts (an understatement).

Sirius was bragging about successfully pulling a prank on that "sleazy, grease-haired git Snape" while Peter patiently listened and Remus threw in an occasional hod, half-asleep.

He, James, couldn't help but smile at Sirius' immaturity and his smile metamorphosed into a wide grin at the object concealed in his palm. An empty box lined with satin stared back at him, where a ring of pale purple gems had once laid.

His eyes wandered to the large window in their dorm and found the Lake. A particular spot stood out in his eyes: a shaded area under the branches of a willow tree where flecks of light had danced through the dense foliage.

Imprints of the scene still played before his eyes—one, which involved him asking Lily to be his wife. James knew that she loved him, she told him that in everything she did and said…but was she ready? For God's sake, they were only 17 and he wouldn't have held it against her if she had said no. This was a big step and now, it was Lily's decision that would determine the continuation of their climb up the stairs of life.

Lily accepted. Tears of happiness trailed down her cheeks as she answered and a hidden light that made itself known at certain times, blazed with a burning intensity.

James thought wryly to himself as he sat on his bed. _She had wanted this just as badly as I did._

Before he continued with this sudden realization, Sirius separated himself from Peter and Remus, who were leaned against one another, caught in a deep sleep.

"Wow Jamesy. Never saw you so happy. You know, if you keep on grinning like that, people will be starting to think that you really _are_ psychotic."

"Ha, ha Sirius. You should be the one talking. If anyone takes a tour of "Sirius' World", it'll be a one-way trip to a padded cell. Hell, I bet the many fine mental institutes across Great Britain have reserved cells just for that purpose."

"Touché," Sirius replied grudgingly, and it was obvious he wanted to turn this into a full-blown word war but quickly changed to another subject. "So James, have you popped the question yet?" Sirius raised an eyebrow to emphasize the implication behind the question. "Don't tell me those last three weeks of the two of us rehearsing the proposal was for null. People were starting to give us strange looks."

"See for yourself." James threw the box in his hands into Sirius' waiting ones. When the other noticed that the velvet box was empty, a grin of happiness (similar to James') brightened his face.

"You know, by the look on your face people would think that you're the one getting married, not me." James couldn't help but tease his friend of several years.

"Hey! There's no rule about being happy for their best friend, now is there?"

"Whatever you say Sirius," James raised his hands in mock acceptance, "after all, you break half the rules and make another half up."

"Oh yeah. That's me in a nutshell all right."

James laughed in response and Sirius joined in. The latter though soon paused and the former stopped as well, looking at the other with curiousity.

Two words escaped Sirius' lips, filled with tangible sincerity.

"Congratulations mate."

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Later that day:

James nervously fidgeted in his silk robes, coloured a shade of deep crimson. All the graduating Gryffindors wore robes of the same colour, whereas all the Hufflepuffs, Ravenclaws and Slytherins wore a certain shade of yellow, blue and green respectively. Excited chatter maintained a steady pace around him as they stood in alphabetical order, waiting for Professor McGonagall to start the role call.

For some inexplicable reason, a sense of dread pulsated in the pit of his stomach. James wished for nothing but for that feeling to for away. For you see, every time this instinct of his blared with wailing alarms, something always happened—something bad. 

And he didn't want to worry any of the other Marauders or Lily since they knew fully well of his "premonitions" of sorts. Premonitions that he would gladly trade for some peace in his life.

Professor Trelawney was the only one who encouraged this power of his and tried to help him develop "The Sight" as she called it. No wonder, that ol' bat just loved morbid happenings. He had a feeling that _she_ was jealous of _him_ or having such a wanky gift. "Curse is more like it," James muttered to himself.

He caught Lily's eyes ahead of him in line and she gave a reassuring smile. He offered a half-smile in response and he felt his nerves weaken a bit in its strength. Besides, he could tell Lily was nervous enough as it is about the speech that, she and he would have to make before the ending of their commencement. 

Lily was not a very good public speaker since she was a naturally shy person. However, the times she had went over it, painstakingly going over minor details. She was trying so hard…and the speech was great. James was sure his girlfriend—no _fiancée_ was going to be a hit.

He could hear McGonagall beginning to call out the names and the voices that once filled the small room behind the Great Hall dull sown to a quiet murmur.

Sirius was one of the firsts to go up and as usual, he went up in a cocky manner that was Sirius. The slightly muscled 17 year-old was naturally charismatic and was generally well liked, his success as a Keeper on the Gryffindor Quidditch team adding to his popularity.

Sure he, James Potter, Head Boy and Seeker for the Quidditch team was popular and was an object of many a crush (oh so he was told by everyone) and was on the list of "Most Shaggable Guys in Hogwarts" (oh so he was told by Sirius). However, he was always off limits because of Lily. 

Sirius though, was a player (and damn proud of it too). The girls flocked to him as if by a magnetic pull. Sirius was always comfortable with the popularity; he was not.

James was surprised that Sirius hadn't pulled a prank yet, owning to the fact he knew the latter for 7 years. Even Professor McGonagall looked mildly surprised at this fact as she shot him a look a suspicion. Sirius smiled innocently in response and stood behind her with four other students who had already received their diplomas.

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Sirius is up to something…Him looking that innocent is never a good thing, James thought wryly to himself.

Lily went up after a few students; a bright smile lit her face as she accepted her diploma. She looked back and found him amid a sea of faces. She winked playfully at him and swaggered seductively to the lengthening line along her right side.

"Everyone's a comedian," he mouthed to her and she laughed softly. He could see a few appreciative glances following her movements across the stage. Lily tended to have that effect with people.

Remus Lupin was the next of his closest friends to go up. It was hard to believe that the slight young man was a werewolf. You just wouldn't guess by looking at his soft brown eyes and light brown hair. He seemed to spend most of his free time in the library, immersed in the great tomes that he preferred to read. Remus was also more reserved than anyone he knew was and James feared that apart from the Marauders and Lily, he spoke to nobody else. That was one of the reasons that they tried so hard to convince Remus to loosen up and to have some fun in his life.

Remus accepted the diploma with a tentative smile but he didn't go very far. Sirius broke through the ranks of students; roughly pushing any that stood before him, in his haste. He reached the front of the scores of students and stood before the other young man.

In what seemed like an impulsive action, Sirius grabbed Remus and kissed him. Hard. Remus froze in surprise for a fraction of a second and the clutched at Sirius, pulling him closer.

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What the hell? James thought, shocked beyond belief. _Sirius and Remus…**together**?_

James couldn't quite believe it. As far as he could tell, there wasn't anything that had indicated them being at an intimate level. Shows what he knows.

A murmur of disbelief and amazement prevailed the small room and Great Hall at Sirius' bold action.

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How long has it been anyway? Thirty seconds? And they **still** hadn't come up for air? And…Are they groping? My God… James turned away, blushing with embarrassment.

He noted that he was standing near two Ravenclaw women who were tittering wildly. One statement said by the brunette of the group, drifted to his ear.

"Why are all the good ones gay? I totally agree with my sister when she says it's a waste of a man."

James shot the pair a disbelieving look. _Do all the women think like that?_

His mind then drifted to Lily who was currently throwing the _still_ kissing Sirius and Remus smiles of happiness. He had a sneaking suspicion that she knew all about the matter at had. 

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Maybe not, James thought with love and a certain sense of pride.

The professors had looked shell-shocked, especially Professor McGonagall. Once she snapped out of her stupor, she exclaimed, rather flustered. "That's quite enough you two. Break it up now."

They pulled away and lingered close to one another, Sirius with a giddy smile on his face and Remus blushing profusely. The two moved to the back of the students who had received their diplomas and the procession continued once again though it was dotted with hushed whispers.

Peter Pettigrew went up, the last member of the Marauders. Unlike her, Sirius and Remus who shared a similar build, Peter was short and was on the chubby side. He wasn't the most popular guy in school but his trustworthiness made up for it by the dozens. Every time someone had a problem, the person they would turn to was Peter. He was just that sort of person.

Soon it was his turn. "Potter, James" ringed through the Great Hall as he walked towards Professor McGonagall. He smiled in gratitude and accepted it but as soon as his hand grasped the rolled up parchment, he knew something was wrong. 

It was a peculiar feeling. It was as if there was a hook in navel that twisted and pulled, sending an acute pain that stabbed at him. He vaguely realized that someone had made his diploma into a portkey.

Yelps of confusion resounded in the Great Hall but one voice carried out clearly to his ear.

"James!" Lily cried out, as she ran to where he was.

Before he could respond to her desperate cry, there was a final jolt, pulling him into a whole different setting all together.

Lily reached where he had stood, a minute too late.

****

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James landed on his feet with a dull "thump" and looked around at his surroundings nervously.

The room was similar to Hogwarts in a sense, when it came to the gray stone slabs that made up the walls and floor. That was where the similarities ended. The room was cold and dank with darkness pervading the little bit of light that entered the room. Water puddles were littered before James' feet and a constant dripping sound resounded in his ears.

The air smelled of decaying mold and was tinged with an inexplicable feeling of doom that sent little tremors up his spine. It was all extremely spooky and he accusingly thought that it was someone's sick idea of a prank when the other person inhabiting the room made himself known.

"Ah, Mr. Potter—looks like we ran into each other yet again.

"Voldemort." The name escaped through his mouth as if he was speaking poison.

It was indeed Lord Voldemort that stepped out of the shadows, in all his glory. He was resplendent in flowing robes of midnight black but that did not de-emphasize his grotesque face.

"Nasty little shock, isn't it?"

James growled.

"What a way with words you have Mr. Potter. However, I can assume that you are not happy to see me." Voldemort's snake lips curled into a cruel smile.

"What do you want from me? Why the bloody hell did you bring me here?"

"Why did I bring you here? Well I brought you here to kill you, isn't that much obvious?"

James instinctively stepped back at the statement. "Why doesn't that surprise me? What twisted plan are you following now?"

"Mr. Potter, I am finding your questions rather tiresome but nevertheless, I'll indulge you for now." Voldemort said with an air of surprising patience.

He walked to a rather plain-looking throne that didn't looked like the most comfortable place to sit. The only prominent features were two stone snakes that entwined through the front legs and arms of the stone throne, eyes of emeralds glittering with life. James silently shuddered. He _hated_ snakes!

The sedentary man (or half-man in James' eyes) sat, the throne standing on a slightly elevated podium at the head of the room. He then continued, "For you see, I simply can't allow for you and Miss. Evans to get married."

James started. He then asked, the words coming out of his mouth slowly, "What does Lily have to do with anything?"

A malicious gleam appeared in Voldemort's eyes at the worried tone that James took on. "Why, everything Mr. Potter. I have many a Seer under my rule and I cannot let the future happen. I either kill you or Miss. Evans and since I already despise you, why not kill two birds with one stone?" This was ended with a careless shrug.

"Leave Lily out of this!" This exclamation exploded out of him and ringed with an earnest intensity. 

Voldemort leaned back against the high-backed throne and smirked sardonically. "You wouldn't dare refuse me, would you now? I can just as well use Miss. Evans to fulfil my means, if necessary."

James then made a strangled sort of noise. Of course, he should fight back—it was the right thing to do. What about Lily though? He couldn't let that happen to her. He would never forgive himself if it did.

James knew what his choice was.

It was a silent sort of acceptance. The air of defeat that emanated from James was tangible. He stared straight ahead, face free of any emotion, but his clenched fists declared otherwise.

Voldemort took a note of all of this with an appraising glance. "Well, well, well. Looks like the decision wasn't too hard, was it?" He quickly took out a wand from his bilious robes and pointed it at James. "Crucio!"

It was unexpected. When the spell hit James, it was as if liquid fire was running through his veins. Searing hot pain that burned and blinded, intense white flashes clouding his vision. It was as if all of his senses went out of order and the palpable pain was the only thing that existed in the whole world. 

James didn't know how long it lasted—time seemed to be stretched out during that whole incident. It just ended.

He found himself kneeling on the rough floor, grasping his sides. Sweat trickled down his face in torrents and to his ears, his breathing sounded loud and harsh. James realized with dread that Voldemort was still present.

"Remember Mr. Potter, that if you dare disobey me, I will make sure it lasts longer—much longer." The words were said with an emphasized menace as he glared at the man before him with unbridled ferocity and disdain.

He truly hated James Potter.

With a sound of triumph, Voldemort again pointed his wand at James, and the words rung through the air. "Exanimatus Iacet!"

The spell hit James forcefully and yet the effect it had on him was surprising, to say the least. Gentle hands appeared in a ghostly manner, ethereal in its pale simplicity, and slowly wrapped themselves around his body.

An incredible sense of drowsiness came over him and his eyelids lowered with a heavy sleep. It was an undeniable command, but what made it harder to resist were the tender caresses—tugging, pulling, _urging_—for him to fall into the black abyss of sleep that laid waiting.

James felt his barriers crumble and tendrils of sleep seeped through. It was over. The darkness crept from the edges of his vision—clouding his mind and sight with the comfort of sleep.

The next thing he knew was a sense of falling and a separation from reality, as the spell cast had its say.

****

= ~ * ~ = ~ * ~ = ~ * ~ =

The spell weakened for a few seconds, but that was all that James needed.

He opened his eyes a crack and it took all of his effort to do so. The spell beckoned him back, but James was determined to keep it at bay for at least a few seconds.

His body ached with a dull pain and his head pulsated with an incredibly powerful migraine. James could feel the black eyes that he sported, the cut lip that was swollen to twice its size, the broken arm and leg that throbbed mercilessly, adding its voice to the symphony of aches.

For the first time, he noticed his surroundings. It was different from the previous room—a bit bigger than a closet and contained a visible window, though it was barred and set high on the farthest wall. These were the only details he could see in the perpetual darkness and yet, it was enough to tell James that he was in a dungeon of sorts.

__

That bloody bastard not only tortured me; he put me in a bloody dungeon! James thought angrily.

The spell was coming back with full force. His eyes stung with the need for rest and his eyelids drooped with built-up fatigue. 

A familiar voice then came out of the darkness of his cell and entered the fog that began to settle in his mind. "James, don't worry. I'm here to help. Just trust me."

Before he fell back into the deep, artificial sleep, he called out to the owner of the voice.

"Peter!" And then he blacked out.

****

~~~FLASHBACK ENDS~~~

= ~ * ~ = ~ * ~ = ~ * ~ =

The next time he had woken up was in a hospital bed. He had no recollection of his past or the events that had transpired. In a way, he never did want to remember it. It was better to be ignorant—it was easier.

He looked up at Lily again, and her face was an open book. Her eyes held a sense of yearning and her countenance an earnestness that told James that Lily's voiced hope was sincere.

Yet he answered, "I can't Lily. I can't come back with you."

"Why can't you?" Lily's voice came out strained and high-pitched.

"I just can't. Lily, please understand."

"What is there to understand?" Her voice raised in pitch and volume and was currently bordering on hysterical.

"Lily, listen to me, please. It's something I have to do."

"No James. You listen to me," she began stabbing his chest accusingly. "How can you say that? Do you know how many people care about you? How many people _miss_ you? And how many people blame themselves everyday about what happened. They think you're dead!" She was flushed with anger; her green eyes were suspiciously bright.

"DON'T YOU THINK I KNOW THAT?" James exclaimed, in a fit of outrage. At the look of surprise and slight fear on Lily's face, James continued with a more subdued voice. "It's not easy for me. It's something I have to do."

"But why James? You have to tell me why!"

He closed his eyes and sighed in unsaid assent. "I can't risk you and everyone getting killed because of me. It's common knowledge that Voldemort is after me. I would never forgive myself if something happened to you."

The last sentence was said in a near-whisper and Lily had to lean in closer to catch it. When she did hear it, she froze at the sudden knowledge and it was as if someone had turned the lights on.

"That's it…" she murmured softly to herself. Why hadn't she realized this before? Some fiancée she was!

She then addressed James in a soothing voice. "Don't you think we all ready know that? It's worth the risk James. Ask anybody—Sirius and Remus and Peter… We don't care! It's worth it, just to know you." Lily smiled fondly at him. "Please come back James. It'll hurt all of us a lot more if you don't, more than any Cruciatus Curse."

James looked appraisingly at Lily and he could sense that she hadn't lied about anything that she had said. Deep down, the familiar sense of a premonition rose and warned him. Told him not to give in, not to go back… However, he let his selfishness reign and squelched the interloper, hiding it in the deep recesses of his mind where it wouldn't dare to pester him with its negative message.

One day he was going to regret it, he just knew it.

In response to her plea, James grabbed Lily about her waist and lifted her off her feet and they kissed passionately amid twirls and turns.

"Mmm…So is that a yes, Mr. Potter?" Lily voiced the question against James' lips.

"Allow me to answer that in my flat." He said this between short, playful kisses. Lily shivered, each kiss making her want more. She scoffed silently at his mischievous attitude; how can he have such control, when every little touch begged to be extended longer. 

He bent forward, in bated breath whispered into her ear, "Let the games begin." That was all it took. Lips met lips in exuberant joy, and a wildfire ignited in their hearts. It was impossible to stop now. They walked towards their destination in a locked embrace, a passionate kiss keeping them more than occupied.

One thing was for sure—during that night, pigs _did_ fly.

****

= ~ * ~ = ~ * ~ = ~ * ~ =

James paced fervently as if he was a man possessed in the waiting room of the hospital. It was a rather typical hospital waiting room with its stark walls and uncomfortable chairs. However, those were such trivial details…it didn't concern him. Besides, he was much too worried or "paranoid" as Sirius put it, about the situation at hand.

__

What is taking so long? James thought anxiously for about the umpteenth time. It was no use to ask the receptionist at the counter—she was of no help whatsoever.

Sirius, Peter, and Marty, who had stood vigil with him for the last five hours oh so had gone down to get some nourishment about ten minutes ago. Sorcha, before heading down to the cafeteria herself, had made her way to a nearby washroom with her infant son, Seamus, in tow. When the forces of nature called, a mere mortal could do little.

Remus was working somewhere in Eastern Europe in such an obscure little town, which only God would know the name of. He had tried reaching Remus but had failed though he had vowed to continue trying until he established a means of communication. When he tried to ask Sirius about Remus' whereabouts, he always managed to change the subject, with the most peculiar look on his face. It was obvious that out of everybody, Sirius was the one that missed Remus the most. If he didn't want to talk about it, that was that.

All of a sudden, an unfamiliar voice interrupted James' thoughts and he slowly registered that this particular voice belonged to the short nurse before him. With a warm smile, she then addressed him. "They are ready to see you, Mr. Potter."

James quickly dispatched a few courteous words of thanks and went through the door that she had pointed to. What met him beyond the door was the most beautiful scene he had ever laid eyes on.

There was Lily, sitting up in bed, face aglow with joy as she looked at the bundle in her arms wrapped in a paled blue blanket, endearingly.

Lily, having heard James's footsteps at the door looked up and she beamed with even more happiness. She cocked her head towards the mass of cloth that she cradled and whispered. "Come and meet your son James."

He ventured forth and stood beside his wife of two years as she carefully handed over the newborn. James nervously accepted the infant and Lily softly exclaimed sounding amazed even, "We're parents James, can you believe it?"

The responsibility of parenthood hadn't hit him until now. What if he wasn't a good father? What if he was the worst father in history? However, when he saw the angelic face stirring softly in his garments, a shot of black hair already visible on the baby's head, all his doubts disappeared.

He was going to make sure that this baby would lead a rich and happy life. He was determined to be there every step of the way. He was going to be there when his son first walks and talks, his first day of kindergarten, his first Quidditch lesson, his first year in Hogwarts, his marriage day. James was going to be there for his son and that was a promise.

"James dear," Lily started and James transferred his attention to her. "You know, I had the hardest time thinking of a name, but when I saw out son, the name just came. What about Harry?"

"Harry huh?" James ran his eyes over his son, who was starting to wake up, from his head to his tiny, little toes. "He looks like a Harry, doesn't he?"

Lily nodded her head in agreement, as she smiled at her husband's approach to the matter at hand.

"Harry Potter…I like the sound of that. So what do you say sport? What do you think of the Harry?"

The infant gurgled with happiness, drool dribbling off his chin.

"So I guess its official then," James said with a smile, "Harry Potter it is."

That was the start of Harry Potter's story.

****

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End file.
